


Ineffable

by DollyPop



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: F/M, French Kissing, Kissing, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 02:08:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8426785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DollyPop/pseuds/DollyPop
Summary: Ineffable. Adjective: too great or extreme to be expressed or described in words.





	

_“I scream it to the nothingness: there ain’t nothing that I need…Home, let me come home. Home is wherever I’m with you.”_   
~Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros

* * *

He doesn’t deserve her and he knows, but she has her back against the wall, her mouth popped open. And she looks so inviting that something inside of him loosens until it feels relaxed and slack. There is no rush, here. Marie looks up at him with a warmth in her eye and pink upon her cheeks and he is charmed by her.

He always was. He always will be.

And when he kisses her, with the slowness of a good, clean dissection, intent on exploring every centimeter of her, every patch of skin she will bare to him, he tastes of ash and she, of honey. Marie is never who he expected to kiss and yet he can imagine kissing no one else. And he tastes of stale cigarettes, smoke probably permanently clotted on his tongue, but Marie sighs against him, regardless.

It always amazed him, will always amaze him, how easily she yields. The Pulverizer, soft and lovely and a woman with a diamond for a fist.

She could tie his tongue into knots with just her mouth. She could tie him into knots with a look. It wouldn’t even be deliberate, he knows, and that is the worst power of all that she has over him. Any word, any touch: he is desperate for her, a man depraved, wanting for her warmth and her affection. He wanted to be loved so deeply that he was sick of it, loved so wholeheartedly that he would never know how it felt to be unloved. And Marie, oh, Marie, she is everything good he knows his blood-speckled hands should not touch. Even now, he imagines she is regretful.

But she isn’t. She opens her mouth, makes an intoxicating noise against him as her fingers loop into his hair.

Marie Marie Marie. She doesn’t mean to bring him to the brink of madness, but she does. And yet, all the same, it is not the same kind as when the Kishin was roaming, his influence coming over Stein’s very soul. Marie’s madness is a different kind. The madness for touch. For warmth. For her love.

He doesn’t want her heart, red and ripe and beating in his hands. He wants to understand her and biology will not do that. Anatomy is no matter with Marie. He knows what parts she has. It is her soul that matters, her core. Beyond where she is pink and wet, where her insides are tender and pliant, is her soul, electric and rare, beautiful and precious. And he feels his own soul, cracked open and stitched together and lobotomized, ache for her. He aches for her. He wants her.

He has always wanted her.

So he kisses her, deeply, calculating. Almost, in a way, lazy. Until, suddenly, with the swiftness of a bolt of lightning, it isn’t. Suddenly, Marie is too much and what he has of her is not enough. His hands slide down over her shoulders and he wants to feel her pulse and trace her teeth and press her close enough to feel her breathing against him. He wants her skin to skin. He wants her soul bared to him, wants to touch it, hold it, hold her, in his palms and never let her go. Marie. Marie who stayed, stays, Marie who whispers his name against his lips.

He whispers her own back as though it is sacred. Because it is. Because she is. Her mouth and her hands and her gleaming, glowing soul. She arches against him, pulling away for the barest moment and pants into the suddenly too-hot air of the lab, but he is already moving to kiss her jaw. He feels her skin against his lips and he wants to kiss her everywhere. Anywhere she will let him. Oh, please, he begs, silently, let him. Marie tips her head back, sliding down against the wall, and the angle he is bent at becomes all the more uncomfortable. She is already so small, Marie, and yet so much all at once. He thinks he could palm her anywhere and never get enough of her. He breathes her in, her scent, until all he exhales is her, carrying the scraps of her name as though a chant or a hymn.

Marie tangles her hand with his hair and whispers his name, reverent, wanting, and who is he to deny her when she bares her throat and his mouth is so hungry for her, so needy for her taste? Her skin is addicting, she is addicting, her very existence making him feel as though he is taking his first breaths of air after suffocation. And he wants to drown in her and her in him.

How long has he thought of this moment, of being mouth to throat with Marie, of kissing her, of wanting to kiss her everywhere? How long has he wanted to wrap himself up in her and let her do everything she wanted and tell him just what she wanted him to do? How long has he waited for her gasp of pleasure to echo out in his lab, bringing each of his nerve endings alive until all he is is a hard knot of muscle and ache pressed to her, each cell yearning?

Because Marie is, was, will ever be _home._ The lighthouse beckoning him like a beacon from a shore. She is the shore. She is the ocean, too. He can feel himself unraveling and he wonders if that is just the kind of kiss Marie has, the kind that can unwind him until he is a DNA helix ready to come apart into tissue and fragments, and she will bring him back together again how she wants. Because he wants to be what she wants. Wants to be the kind of man she is desperate to kiss, the kind of man she will press her hips against and tell him she wants him, too.

She doesn’t even have to do anything to him, charming, wholesome, good Marie. Good to her bones. Good to her heart, fleshy and thumping. Good to her soul. His heartbeat slams in his chest in time to hers. Because even with her on his tongue, right in front of him, because she is on his tongue, he is smitten to the point of awe. Marie who can unwind him and chooses to help him come together, instead.

She is the closest thing he has ever gotten to the definition of holy. And he does not deserve her. And he knows. And he kisses her silly, wants to spoil her with touch, and she is filthy and obscene, his Marie, when she tells him to wreck her so that she would be ruined to everyone else. And he thinks there is no way he ever could, because she is more than her skin, more than her parts.

Her soul is what matters, and when he touches it, softly, with fingertips that have only known destruction, he is a man at the foot of a church, reaching for his God. He is breathing against her neck as she moves her hips against him, clothed, still, but none of that matters because the resonance is humming so strongly against them, he can feel her soul. He can feel her. And she is gentle but with the hardest angle in her heart, where she is unyielding and powerful, swift punches and lightning, and when he kisses her, teeth and tongue and a desperate moan he lets loose into her mouth, he can taste the static she sends humming through every bone in his body.

And he knows he doesn’t deserve her. Doesn’t deserve this. Never has and never will and doesn’t.

But she kisses him, kisses him, kisses him, still.

**Author's Note:**

> Day 6: Shelter


End file.
